Tyler Flynn Dorholt
The great interest shown for the woman in the park comes from the jazz trio supporting her advance toward the bench. Even bugs scuttle invisibly in rhythm and my current texture is imagination rocked golden like a saxophone. Compose the self slowly. Get up and over to her, say something like people meet in parks right? As for the conception of the sun, we've looked up its tenure early on the menu screen; what they say is that it will be gaining articles of roaming all week and that even the workers will try a coat off in the practiced noon, their shadows taut and implicit, an inseparable salutation, that newness.
As to follow the impact of my emotion I am allowing the fountain to splash me. Harmlessness is hidden every instant in the splendor of a circle. And since, while I am more or less drenched, people patch their backs in repose, dry and experiencing indefinable delicacies of natural light, before spilling out into the square to walk in awkward lines back to the lonesome throats of flats. We are hardly cognizant of how many guitars are droning low the inoperable palette of instinct. I am also drying off here. The street, as veined from the source the park partakes in, is in fact attractive for departure, yet I am unready and staying.
Brief sensation in the possibility of, or thinking about the silence you are living in right now and what noise it will find. I am reminded of minding the asking of your questions only in that you would discover them soon after looking at me. The dramatics of commonplace surface, the inactive fountain is swarming with children. Barely visible, the concern I have for movement while still, the amplified sway of the old forest, the character of necessary nights collecting on the weekend tape. There is a park for this, concealed and what jeans passed through? They were dealing with rejection, the unloved, and in waling for many hours the sun still stood, facing them and, as was the circle, showing.
The low morning the valley lifts out of its late night clarity, the eggs that stand straight up at equinox, how to emerge in an expanse at the moment the sun splits the sporadic actions constituted by a plot of land—I am here to confer the birds having left the house, the stereotyped surplus of beauty juggled back into the purity of traversing dusk in order to breathe again, to unframe the funnel and follow, like wind in the webs of a screen door, the minor complexities of spring as in circles it codes thought, planes the foot, sources the substance and pauses to hush, hush the present into a place we can pass in having been.
Night and day are equal now; it's equinox and I have been balancing eggs on the counter for three consecutive hours, the oval complexity of uncracked objects putting patience into my fingertips—the crouching game—the understanding of a little world unhurrying itself into stance, the same fingers that, less I consider them more, circled lobes, pressed numbers to receive voices, held tight the cursive fold of adolescence, held her before the door that would shut me in, as shutting is yet not as shutter, the picture coming into the machine, or how it's when they stop trying to destroy you, my mother said, that you should really start to worry—that anticipatory gland of half-clothed preparation—they being lovers, or who I held in my head in wanting something to hold, the drowning game of lust and the variations of preference attached to taking in protein, taking it in, information or the reality of breaking something open to draw its rumbling products in, to scramble upon the easy cot of a glance, to lure the egg into the suspension of spring, or how we want to say rebirth, that this is green and growing, the weathered conjecture of wind leaving the egg unscathed, the umber belt that ribboned the blouse I kept hanging on the mirror without its body, just my reflection, unbalanced and cracking, obliterated as to a shell, as is forlorn, yet now, as are the membranes of focusing, I am staring again at objects, subject to daylight beating darkness in a day, to the fullness of a room without doors, to keeping at something, just keeping, arising into the top rung of non-time with an egg, that my hands let it go to move up on its own, to stand before being splintered into the spread, taken by worry.
The italicized line in "Worry" is taken from Sam Lipsyte's The Ask
I had no clue that eggs could be balanced straight up on their own, even on slanted surfaces, during the equinox. Because of this I was consumed with what shapes meant, in terms of thinking; then, a small project brigandishly overtook me, in which an attempt to find the shape of words, such as worry and tropism, meant using them in an open space, through a story, to try and snag semblance. Weeks of park-brooding and porch-pondering ensued.